But they're tainted now. Tainted and tarred for always and ever.
Lamb, they were. A favourite. Drizzled with tomato and wine sauce, served with salad and crusty bread. I'd looked forward to it all day. Sometimes the thought of a nice meal can make the world run smoother.
"Spot on," I'd said, laying knife across fork.
But destiny was already mapped.
Sometime in the night the chef went to the bathroom and stayed there.
I should have bumped my karma count and checked on her. But the cold numbed my conscience. I thought no more about it, then I thought no more at all.
But a texted shopping list next day couldn't be ignored.
Paracetamol. Cup-a-soup. Lucozade. Most ominously, bathroom bleach.
"I'm not well," she said, under duvet and sorry expression, when I arrived home
But the good fight was fought. Less than 24 hours later she skipped sweetly home.
"Might not have been the meatballs, hope you don't get my lurgy…" she called.
And I shivered even though the fire roared.
Paracetamol were chewed, hot tea drunk.
"Bring it on," I muttered.
And on it was brought. All one way. None of it mine. "What more do you want from me?" I screamed two days later. "I've got nothing left to give."
But, staggering to the bathroom, it became clear, even after 48 hours nil by mouth, there was more. The bug was merciless.
Maybe my pain threshold is low or maybe I'm rubbish at being unwell but I find illness like an alternate reality. A point arrives I can no longer remember – can't even imagine – how it feels to be well. And then I don't care about getting better, I just want to cease to exist.
Over dramatic? There's more. "Will I survive?" I asked my mother down the phone.
"I think you'll pull through," she said. I swear I heard a magazine page flick over.
I wanted sympathy but she offered only practical advice. None any good.
Warmth. Lemonade. Doctor. The meter in my bedroom heater is a painful pound. The last of the soft drink had spiked glasses of gin. The thought of leaving the house made me feel worse.
"Will a doctor come here?" I asked. "I don't think so," she said. "Then I'll die alone," I sobbed. Even when my body is collapsing, my sense of melodrama retains its focus.
And so I shivered and sweated, cringed and cried, panicked and pined.
And all the time I thought of those meatballs. I tasted them.
But I did not die.
Time passed away but I did not.
After 72 hours I rinsed a mug and drank tea. After 76 I ate warmed-up pizza.
"Is there a metaphor here, a life lesson?" a friend mused as I told him about the not-so-near death experience. "Not to look forward to meatballs so much? Be prepared?"
Maybe. Maybe not.
Some things are just the way they are.